Vegeta, Family Man?
by A.S. Mitchell
Summary: Kids make Vegeta nervous, which is understandable. They're slobbery, annoying, and they're easy to break.


_*****Yep, it's another one of **those** stories._

* * *

Vegeta learned that there was a time between the battles and potential dying where things slowed to a trickle. It became so boring it was practically maddening. Days were spent in repetitious training, and the nights were shorter, especially the ones where there no lovemaking took place. Try as he might, Vegeta could not find comfort in the normalcy thrust at him, it just wasn't his style.

He would don regular Earth-clothes and bide his time, maybe participate in some inane holiday when Bulma nagged him enough (it seemed to him that there were far too many days with significant importance on the crazy planet). Some days, he contemplated simply leaving. It wouldn't be hard, though knowing Bulma she would construct some sort of Saiyajin-finder and track him down in a months time. No, he wouldn't even be safe in space, for a blue-haired psychopath would be hot on his tail the instant she found herself alone.

No, he would stay. He had nowhere to go back to, and anyway, he had a family. A son. A…romantic companion? He shook the thought off. The mother of his child, he decided, for lack of better word.

Child. He smirked gently. How could it be that just yesterday he had no physical ties to this universe? Now, he had a son. It still didn't seem real.

"Vegeta! Where is that low-life Saiyajin jerk at?"

_That_, however, was real.

He raked a hand down his face, stifling a sigh and enjoying what last few moments of peace he had. He paused, pulling his hand back and glaring at it-such a strange feeling, an ungloved hand. He flexed his hand and decided he didn't like the feeling of skin on skin. In his peripheral vision, Bulma appeared, baby Trunks balanced on her hip. She was not happy.

Her blue hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, and she was wearing an oversized sweatshirt and a pair of shorts. Vegeta looked her up and down, raising an eyebrow. Normally she was very prim and proper. It wasn't often she wore anything short of a name brand.

"Don't look at me like that," she scolded, blowing a few loose strands from her face with a huff of breath. It was still strange for him to see her without the large plume of blue curls around her head. Straight hair suited her better, he thought. "I am so off limits to you it isn't even funny."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't act dumb, you know what I'm talking about."

Vegeta nodded his head toward the boy, changing the subject. "Why is he awake?"

"He's awake because someone kept him up all yesterday after noon training. He missed his nap and now his schedule is all messed up."

"You can't seriously be blaming me for the boy simply not being tired," he said sarcastically.

Bulma shot him a warning glare, all while bouncing Trunks on her hip. "You know, you do an awful lot of laying around for someone who didn't just have a_ baby!_"

"You didn't_ just _have the boy," Vegeta corrected her harshly, rising. "And if there were something of interest to do on this wretched planet, perhaps I wouldn't spend as much time on the upholstered furniture."

"Upholstered furniture?" Bulma sneered. She began to laugh, tossing her head back.

"Abadababluagh," Trunks said, not wanting to be left out.

"He spoke," Vegeta said, his irritation vanishing.

Bulma reared her head at him, nearly shouting, "He's been speaking for a while now. If you'd spend two minutes with him, you would have known that already!" Before Vegeta could reply, she held Trunks out to him. The boy dangled in the air, looking confused. "And I spend all my time being a single parent, when his father's just two feet away. Why don't you try being a dad?"

Trunks gave a belated "hi!" to which Vegeta ignored.

"I can't."

"You mean _won't_. Well I have news for you, buster! You're _going_ to do it, and you know why? Because I was the one who carried him around for nine months, I'm the one with the stretch marks, and I'm the one who's done most of the work!"

"I cannot watch the boy."

"And why not?" she asked, shoving Trunks into his hands.

Vegeta handled the boy awkwardly, more like a sack of potatoes than a baby. "I don't know the first thing concerning the handling of children," he confessed gratingly. Trunks squirmed around and Vegeta froze up, his face growing red. "Take him!" he demanded.

Bulma smirked, pushing the long sleeves up to her elbows. "Nope." She folded her arms.

"Take the boy at once!" he shouted directly into Trunks' face, who blinked and began crying hysterically.

"No doing, Vegeta." She put a hand on her hip. "Sorry. You need to spend some time with your son. I'm going to go get dressed and go out for a while, like normal women with boyfriends do."

He would injure the boy, somehow. Break him, starve him, bludgeon him. Something would happen, and it would be on his hands. He blanched at the thought.

She was really leaving. Vegeta felt his stomach lurch. "Woman. Woman!"

"My _name_ is _Bulma!_" she snapped, causing Trunks to cry harder.

He growled and their eyes met, both looking determined.

He swallowed thickly. "B-bulma, woman," he forced out, the name sounding foreign on his lips, "you'll be sorry when I drop him, mark my words!"

"Oh, can it, crybaby." She rolled her eyes. "Just watch him for an hour or two, you'll be fine." she made to leave and then turned back, leaving him with a final instruction. "And don't hold him like that. He's a baby, not an active bomb, Vegeta. Jeez."

And that was that. Bulma did just as she said she would, going upstairs and slipping into presentable clothes. She drove off, leaving him standing there, holding Trunks under the armpits. The two stared at one another. He sighed, hanging his head.

"This is ridiculous. I'm a warrior, not a day care provider."

"Babider!" Trunks repeated as best he could, fingers grabbing hold of his fathers' thick mane of hair.

"Stop that, brat!" he berated, carrying the boy indoors again and shutting the door with his foot. He would simply go find Bulma's mother and leave the boy in her charge. He smirked. Perfect.

Somehow, Trunks ended up against his chest, and though it felt awkward, it seemed a more suitable position in which to hold a child. He began to cry again when he'd tried to hold him the traditional way, perhaps being too big now for that, and balancing him on his hip was impossible, not to mention idiotic-looking.

"Woman!" Vegeta called, flushing when he realized he did not know Bulma's mothers name. He thought his hardest, but nothing came to mind, and further inspection of the lab showed that her father had gone, as well.

Vegeta mumbled, "Perfect."

He retreated to the couch, setting the boy on the floor, and simply watched him for the time being. Trunks watched back. That quickly grew annoying, so Vegeta took a throw pillow and placed it in front of the boys face. He leaned forward, elbow on his knees, watching as Trunks wrapped his pudgy little fingers around it.

"Daa!" Trunks squealed, rocking backwards. His head hit the ground, and the tears resumed, streaming down his face, which was still raw from earlier.

Startled, Vegeta quickly rose to his feet, but then paused, unsure of what to do. Instinct told him to walk away and let him cry himself to sleep. He should learn early on not to be overly dependant for things. Vegeta scowled, propping the boy up with and surrounding him with throw pillows. There would be no more falling. Or moving, for that matter.

Did he speak to the boy? Ignore him? Set him in front of the television? Feed him? He thought of the mashed baby food dribbling down the boy's cheeks, then being regurgitated onto his shoulder later. He didn't know if children his age still did that, but he wasn't about to risk it.

"I'm not feeding you," he revealed, crossing one leg over the other then folding his arms.

"Eeedooh!" Trunks repeated.

Vegeta, realizing for the first time that he may be able to communicate, said, "Feeding you. I'm not going to."

"Eeedy'ooh!"

"Eff. Feeding."

"Fftaaabmla."

"Eff."

"Ff."

Not bad. He thought back, trying to recall at what age Saiyajin children became fully articulate. He couldn't use himself for reference, seeing as he was doing more than speaking before his age milestones.

He surprised himself by saying, "Vegeta."

Trunks, more interested in his toes, did not attempt to repeat.

"Vegeta," he repeated, pulling his fingers from between his toes. "Say it."

Trunks looked up, clearly annoyed.

"Vegeta."

"Bubida."

"Vegeta."

"Buhdiba."

He frowned. "There is no 'buh.' Where are you getting 'buh' from?" Perhaps the boy wasn't as intelligent as he had first thought. "Vuh."

"Buh!"

"Vuh. Vee."

"Bvuh."

"Vegeta."

"…Vudebuh."

"Oh, come on!" he shouted, slamming his fist down into the couch.

"Ba, ba ba," Trunks sang happily, clapping his hands, seemingly oblivious to his fathers chagrin. "Baauma!"

Vegeta snorted, thinking he understood why the boy was obsessed with the 'buh' sound. Bulma, of course. Must spend too much time around his grandparents, he thought. Finally, he turned and settled his eyes on Trunks. He had an idea.

"Woman," he said bluntly. Trunks gave him a large smile. He returned it with a smirk. "Woman," he said again.

"Uh, uhmahnnn," Trunks whined, making a fist repeatedly. "Milk!"

Vegeta grunted and rolled his eyes, hands on his knees. He gathered the boy up and retreated to the kitchen, strapping him in his high chair. He filled a children's cup, complete with a lid, with milk, and dangled it teasingly.

"Woman," he said sternly. "Bulma. Woman."

Trunks reached for the sippy cup, murmuring softly. "Miiilk!"

Many minutes later, Trunks seemed to be catching on. He managed the 'wo' sound, but Vegeta wasn't satisfied just yet. He wanted to see the look on her face when she picked him up and he called her woman. It would be worth all crying and pulled hair.

Vegeta pulled a chair up to the highchair, eyes locked onto Trunks. "Once more. Woman."

"Wo'mun!" Trunks cried happily, both hands grabbing at the air.

Vegeta smiled and handed him the sippy cup. "You've done well." He only regretted that he hadn't spent time with the child before. Perhaps if he had, his first word would have been "woman." He made a mental note to ask what his first word was.

Bulma would be home within the hour, so he collected the child up and returned to the living room, where he suffered through some horrible television show, until he fell into an uncomfortable asleep, Trunks cradled awkwardly in his arms, half serving as a pillow.


End file.
